


all the words we'll never say

by Shinybug



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mild Blood, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Oral Sex, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:20:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25552696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shinybug/pseuds/Shinybug
Summary: Jaskier tucks his face into Geralt’s stolen cloak and breathes. It smells like him, like leather and steel and sweat and the lavender soap he steals from Jaskier every time he bathes. Jaskier closes his eyes and tries to hold this moment close, remembering the feel of Geralt’s body weighing him down, the taste of his mouth, the sound of his gasp. It’s not enough.or, Five kisses to build or destroy a friendship on, and one kiss that decides their fate.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 286
Kudos: 1274
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, Melo Mapo's Favorite Witcher Pairings





	1. The Gaze

1\. The Gaze

It’s three nights after Posada when Jaskier realizes that Geralt _probably_ isn’t going to fuck off and leave him in the dust. They’ve settled down for the evening in their camp (Jaskier can say ‘their camp’ now, he’s almost sure of it), the fire is crackling and Jaskier’s belly is full of rabbit and wine. Geralt’s hands are arcing in smooth motions as he sharpens his swords and nearby Roach shifts her weight and sighs. Jaskier picks up his lute and settles it in his lap.

Geralt’s movements stop in mid-stroke.

Jaskier raises his eyebrows and points to his lute, a question.

Geralt gives him a hard stare, a challenge, maybe.

So Jaskier strums once along the strings, a gentle trill of music that doesn’t have any purpose to it, and Geralt’s left eye twitches. Jaskier waits. After a moment Geralt continues the stroke along the blade, and Jaskier begins to sing.

He doesn’t push his luck; he chooses a simple melody that’s barely more than a children's lullaby. Geralt ignores him, which is probably the best outcome Jaskier could expect. Jaskier plays a string of similar songs, mindful of his tentative and unspoken agreement that Jaskier can continue to travel with Geralt, but he’s under no illusion about the fact that Geralt could at any time revoke that privilege. Still, he reasons, Geralt will have to get used to Jaskier’s musical inclinations at some point, and his silence is as good as permission.

He’s in the middle of a gentle ballad of unrequited love when Geralt abruptly puts his swords away and tosses out his bedroll. Jaskier keeps singing, because he’s not one to abandon a song unless vegetables or bakery items are being thrown his way. Geralt makes some huffing noises as he settles down, and Jaskier suspects that he doesn’t appreciate his choice of song.

Geralt stretches out on his back, staring up at the sky. Jaskier watches him out of the corner of his eye. The moon is kind to Geralt, lighting up his silver hair like a lamp in the night, and lining his profile so that one side glows with the firelight and the other soaks up the moonlight. Not for the first time Jaskier is struck by his beauty; the beginnings of an ode to Geralt’s body had begun to compose itself the moment they met.

Jaskier finishes his song with a light flourish of notes, unable to help how inspired he’s feeling at the moment. Geralt takes a deep, silent breath.

Looking at him, Jaskier is suddenly full of complicated longing. The fact that Jaskier is drawn to Geralt’s incomparable body aside, Geralt has seen so much of the world that Jaskier is just beginning to experience, and he aches for such knowledge. Jaskier is fresh and foolish; he is self-aware enough to recognize that had he not found Geralt of Rivia his career (and indeed his life) might not be long-lived. The path of a travelling bard is a hard and treacherous one, and many do not last their first year.

The shrewd part of him, the canny voice in his head that whispers to him in between his romantic flights of fancy, tells him that he needs Geralt. He needs him, he wants him. Geralt is temptation and danger, but he is also protection. If he’s not careful, Geralt could become his whole world.

“I want to thank you,” Jaskier says, hushed, fiddling with a lute string. “I know you find me barely tolerable, and I will try to be better about keeping my ramblings to a minimum. I’ve never been particularly good at that, but I think you could be the making of me, Geralt, and I think I could be helpful to you in return, and I’d like to follow you as long as you’ll have me. I’m a lover, not a fighter, so obviously I’ll leave all that nonsense to you, but...I can help you find more welcome than animosity when you travel among the uneducated masses, and I think you may be sorely in need of that. And people should know who you really are.”

Geralt turns his head to look at Jaskier, his expression inscrutable. “I’ve been alone my whole life, bard. I have no need of you now.”

That stings a bit, but Jaskier has always enjoyed a challenge and he hadn’t expected to be appreciated on sight, especially by a man who is more likely to grunt than to speak actual words to convey his thoughts. He perseveres.

“You may think you don’t need me, witcher, but I think you’ll feel otherwise after a while, when you see what I can do for you.”

“Why would you want to? I punched you within an hour of meeting you. I’m the Butcher of Blaviken, as you said.”

“You’re also someone who gave up all his coin to a ragged band of elves who had tried to kill you, and spared a creature that others saw only as a monster.” Jaskier sets his lute carefully aside and smiles ruefully. “And as for the punch, that’s hardly the first time that someone has greeted me that way. I’m quite used to it by now.”

Geralt’s face does something complicated that Jaskier can’t follow, but he doesn’t reply.

“Well, anyway, thank you,” Jaskier says simply. “I think you’re a good person, and I look forward to knowing you better.”

Jaskier isn’t sure what it is about that statement that has Geralt rising up on one elbow to stare at him, but he sits still and waits for him to say something. It’s startling to be the object of such scrutiny by eyes like that, shining gold and reflecting firelight like a mirror. He feels oddly breathless as the moments tick by, and he bites his lip in nervousness, trying not to squirm.

Geralt’s eyes track the motion and settle on Jaskier’s mouth. He doesn’t speak, but his focus is blunt and heavy like a weight. Jaskier’s blood hums and he feels that gaze like a physical touch on his lips, the warmth and pressure just an imagined echo but deeply affecting all the same.

Then Geralt abruptly rolls over to face away from him, the light from the fire illuminating his broad back and emphasizing the wall he’s put up between them.

Jaskier, astonished, touches his mouth carefully, and his lips tingle under his fingertips. He takes one shuddering breath and then another, then forces his limbs into movement.

He shakes out his bedroll and lies down, feeling the uncomfortable jab of the rocks beneath him, but he’s too preoccupied with the kiss that wasn’t a kiss to really care. Until that moment he was fairly certain Geralt hadn’t really even looked at his face, truly looked at him, but he’s definitely seen him now.

Jaskier wonders if the same expression was echoed in his own eyes as he gazed back.

It’s a long time before he falls asleep. The next day Geralt doesn’t really look at him again until Jaskier pulls out his lute, and even then Geralt’s glance just slips over him like water.


	2. The Stitches

2\. The Stitches

It’s not that bad, obviously, because Geralt came in under his own power and the blood has _almost_ stopped freely flowing. Still, Jaskier is unused to seeing that much blood and Geralt is clearly going to need stitches on his shoulder.

He hovers while Geralt pulls off his torn and blood-soaked shirt. The fabric is black and shines wetly in the firelight when Geralt drops it on the hearth. He looks more disgruntled than anything, but Jaskier can’t help but feel sympathetic to Geralt for the pain he must be feeling, despite his expression.

“How can I help?” Jaskier blurts out while Geralt tries to look back over his shoulder to see the wound. It’s several inches long and slides around from his shoulder blade toward his upper arm.

Geralt grunts in irritation. “I can’t reach it. You’ll have to clean and stitch it.”

Jaskier feels lightheaded and blinks a few times. “Geralt, I’m definitely not qualified to handle that. These fingers are suited to lute strings, not needles and skin. Can I find the village doctor instead?”

“He won’t come. Says he won’t treat my kind. Get that basin and cloth.” Geralt drags a rickety chair over next to the bed.

Jaskier’s jaw drops but he quickly pours clean water into a bowl and brings it over to where Geralt is straddling the chair and bleeding. “Are you serious?”

The flat look that Geralt levels at him is eloquent. Geralt would not joke about something like this, if he was even the type to joke at all.

Jaskier purses his lips in anger at the doctor as he sits down behind Geralt on the bed. He dips the cloth in the water and begins to clean off the blood so he can see the wound. There is so much blood and grime smeared around that he can barely find the edges at first. He persists, more afraid of hurting Geralt than he is of the blood. Slowly the water in the basin turns red and the wound is revealed. It’s a clean slice, which is a huge relief.

“I thought you had the ability to heal fast,” Jaskier says as he dabs at the wound.

“I do. It just goes better if it’s stitched first.”

“Will it scar?”

“They always do.”

Jaskier’s gaze wanders over Geralt’s naked back, counting scars that are thin and old, scars that are deep and raised, a hatch marked surface that is a testament to pain suffered, however briefly. He wants to rest his palm over a tight burst of scars over Geralt’s ribs, and he aches.

Geralt straightens up and gestures at their things. “In my pack is a leather case, it’s a medical kit. Bring that to me.”

Jaskier fetches it and hands it to Geralt, who opens it and removes a bottle of clear liquid. He gives it to Jaskier, who takes it with a visibly shaking hand. Geralt suddenly wraps Jaskier’s hand in both of his, squeezing gently. Jaskier is so surprised that he forgets to be nervous. He stares into Geralt’s eyes and sees both need and confidence in them.

“Pour some of this into the wound. It will bubble as it cleans.”

Jaskier swallows hard and looks down at their hands. Geralt lets go and Jaskier notices that his hand doesn’t shake anymore. He holds the cloth beneath the gash to catch the excess and carefully pours the liquid into it. It immediately begins frothing and Geralt goes stiff beneath his hands, but he doesn’t make a sound.

When it’s finished Geralt hands him a curved needle and thread. “Have you ever sewed anything before?”

“I’ve repaired some seams on my clothes, but that’s hardly the same.”

Geralt shakes his head. “Just pretend it’s a ripped seam, and don’t stop until it’s done.”

“You want something for it first?”

“Ale, if you’ve got any.”

“Will that really help?”

“No, but I’m thirsty.”

He brings Geralt his own forgotten mug of ale, and he drains it and then squares his shoulders. Jaskier wraps his fingers around the curve of his bicep to steady himself, letting the heat of Geralt’s skin rise through his own. He’s never touched Geralt before, not like this, and it makes his heart race even more than the thought of what he’s about to do.

“Jaskier, you can do this,” Geralt says, and his voice is an impatient growl but Jaskier recognizes it for the reassurance that it is.

Slowly but surely he threads the needle through Geralt’s skin, stitch after stitch drawing the flesh closed. He makes a neat little row of threaded lines, just as he would with a seam on a ripped doublet. He’s had enough of those to know how best to do that, and he tells himself that this is no different. Repair a tear, close a hole, keep the insides from spilling out.

Geralt is absolutely silent through the whole thing, and it’s only because Jaskier has his hands braced against his shoulder that he can feel the almost imperceptible tremor running through him with each piercing tug. Jaskier takes a deep breath and smells the iron of blood and the musk of Geralt’s sweat, the sweet tang of leather and the acid bite of the medicine in the wound. When he finishes sewing he snips the thread with small shears from Geralt’s medicine kit and then looks at his hands, sticky with blood.

He cleans the freshly closed wound and Geralt directs him to wrap clean strips of cloth around his shoulder. It’s in an awkward place and Jaskier tries hard to do it correctly, the job made more difficult because he has to reach his arms around Geralt’s bulk to take the cloth from one side to the other. He leans close to Geralt’s ear and tries not to breathe, but he can still feel the warmth of Geralt’s skin pressing against his own. When he's done he sits back down behind Geralt and sags forward, resting his forehead on Geralt’s unbandaged shoulder.

“That’s good,” Geralt says hoarsely. “Thank you.”

Jaskier nods his head, eyes closed, and presses his mouth to Geralt’s skin in a kiss he hadn’t planned to give. They both freeze, and Jaskier’s heart pounds in his ears, his face burning with mortification.

“Sorry, I have no idea why I did that,” he mutters, and Geralt shakes his head once, a wordless dismissal.

Jaskier bustles through putting away the supplies, his hands shaking again. Geralt watches him for a minute and then stands up, stripping down to his smalls and carefully laying down in the bed on his good side. Jaskier doesn’t look at him, just strips likewise and blows out the candles, then joins Geralt on the bed, turned away from him.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says softly. “It’s fine.”

Jaskier closes his eyes and licks his lips, tasting salt.


	3. The Goodnight

3\. The Goodnight

Jaskier is drunk.

This is not unheard of, for Jaskier will be the first to admit that he has a fondness for good ale, but he has not yet allowed himself to imbibe this much in front of Geralt. He wouldn’t have done so now, had it not been for certain circumstances beyond his control, namely news of a certain bard of Cidaris winning a long coveted singing competition.

“I’ve won that competition twice, Geralt. Twice! And Valdo _fucking_ Marx, that conceited popinjay, had no right to go and win it three times. I will not be upstaged! I will not!” Jaskier sets down his mug too hard and ale splashes over the rim.

“You have been,” Geralt replies, possibly not for the first time. “Move on, bard.”

Jaskier’s mouth falls open. “You might as well ask the sun to stop shining. Should I hide my light away? Let Valdo _fucking_ Marx surpass me while I settle down and become a--a--potato farmer, or something equally banal? Would you have me never sing again, Geralt?”

Geralt grimaces.

“Ha! You’re a terrible friend.”

“I’m not your friend.”

“Of course you’re my friend, Geralt,” Jaskier explains, though he suspects he is talking himself in circles. He drains his ale and signals for another. “You’re here now in my time of need, aren’t you?”

“I already paid for the room.”

Jaskier makes a face at Geralt, who remains impassive. The barmaid comes and fills his mug again, and Jaskier drains half of it in one go, hiccups, and wishes that Geralt would at least make the effort to look sympathetic. “If I’d been there,” he says softly, a pang in his heart, “I’d have trounced him soundly. I’d have meta--metalapho-- _metaphorically_ beaten him with my lute.”

Geralt looks down at his own mug, then up at Jaskier with an odd expression on his face. “Why didn’t you go, then?”

Jaskier blinks. He can’t quite remember because he’s distracted by Geralt’s golden eyes. That might be a reason in itself, he thinks.

Fifteen minutes later Jaskier is gazing up at Geralt somewhat sideways from where his chin rests precariously on his hand, flattened on the scarred tabletop. “Tell me a story, Geralt,” he pleads morosely.

He shakes his head and makes a sour face. “I don’t tell stories.”

“Come on, I’ve had an awful day. Just tell me something from your travels, like a dramatic conquest of a terrible beast, or--or the best sex you’ve ever had. Use your words, Geralt, I know you can do it.”

Geralt looks pained. “You wouldn’t remember it in the morning anyway.”

“Then it won’t matter how much you talk. Your secret ramblings will be safe with me.” He tries to smile reassuringly. Truthfully, he’s not _that_ drunk. He’s pretty sure he’ll remember most of tonight, especially if Geralt finally opens up to him.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and sighs. “Fine.”

Jaskier beams up at him. Geralt has taken on a gauzy quality, all soft around the edges and glowing in the lamplight, and he looks beautiful as well as reluctantly indulgent. Jaskier waits while Geralt frowns, focusing on his hands wrapped around his mug of ale.

“Once I took a contract to take down a bruxa who had been feeding on a small village. The villagers had all taken up a collection and it was far short of what I’d normally take. But there was this one girl, she couldn’t have been more than seven, her mother had been killed a week before. There was so much confusion and grief in her eyes. Unfathomable.”

Geralt pauses, uncertain, looking up at Jaskier. He purses his lips as though he might refuse to go on. Jaskier has never heard Geralt speak so much all at once, so he nods mutely, encouragingly. He knows he will absolutely remember this in the morning.

“I had forgotten what it was like for the people who had lost ones they loved. People who asked for help. It’s not always about nobles and nuisances. Sometimes it’s that little girl.”

“So what happened with the bruxa?”

“I killed her.” Geralt pulls up his sleeve and shows him a jagged scar on his forearm. “She gave me this.”

“That’s it? What about the drama, the epic danger?”

Geralt shakes his head. “I just killed her. That’s it.”

Jaskier sighs. “What about the villagers? Did the little girl thank you?”

“No. Her eyes still looked the same, afterwards. She didn’t care about the bruxa. I couldn’t bring her mother back, that’s all that mattered to her.”

Jaskier chews his lip and twists his mug back and forth on the sticky wood.

“The next time a noble wanted me to deal with a ‘pest problem’ I walked away. Maybe I should have taken the contract, I don’t know. But that noble didn’t have the look in his eyes that the little girl did, and I couldn’t stomach doing it for any less.”

Jaskier is pretty sure that his face is awash with naked adoration, but he can’t stop gazing at Geralt, whose expression is somber but not closed off the way it usually is. He wants to thank him for the story, to praise him for sharing it and encourage him to do it more often, but he doesn’t want to scare him off. He simply says, “Thank you, Geralt.”

Geralt looks uncomfortable but nods.

Jaskier spoils the moment with a jaw-cracking yawn, suddenly exhausted and fuzzy with drink. Geralt huffs at him.

“Come on, bard, up with you.” He slings his arm under Jaskier’s and hefts him up, then helps him up the stairs to their room. Jaskier suspects that he could make it there on his own with some determination, but Geralt is so very warm all along his side, and Jaskier is helplessly unable to say no.

Once inside he sits Jaskier down on his bed and tugs his boots off for him. It takes some maneuvering but he gets Jaskier’s doublet off even though his limbs won’t fully cooperate. When Geralt has his arms around him to lower him back onto the bed, Jaskier presses his face into Geralt’s shoulder and breathes deeply, unable to remember why he shouldn’t. He smells sweet like old leather.

“There,” Geralt says, sounding a little hoarse. He repositions Jaskier’s head on the pillow and tugs the blanket over him, then steps away to sit on his own bed. Jaskier watches him remove his own boots and shirt, waiting (longing) for him to remove his breeches, but Geralt leaves them on.

He pinches the candle on the table between them, smothering the flame and throwing the room into darkness save for the moonlight peeking feebly through the window. Suddenly Jaskier can’t bear to let the evening end like that, on an anticlimax, so he reaches out his hand.

“No goodnight kiss?” He means it to be teasing, but he seems to have lost the ability to modulate his own voice as well as his heart, so it comes out plaintive instead. He winces, then waits for Geralt’s reaction.

Geralt freezes. Jaskier watches his outline in moonlight, unmoving, not even breathing. Then he feels the bed dip beside his head, Geralt’s hand braced there, and his heart starts to race. Geralt hesitates with his mouth just above Jaskier’s, the warmth of him radiating out, and then Jaskier feels the softest, briefest kiss he’s ever received brush across his lips. Between one heartbeat and the next he’s gone, and Jaskier stares up at the dark ceiling listening to Geralt settle into his own bed.

“Good night, Geralt,” he whispers.

Geralt’s only answer is a sigh.


	4. The Monster

4\. The Monster

It’s not like he has time to give it any thought. One minute he’s watching Geralt effortlessly dodge the snapping jaws of the wyvern, and the next he’s watching Geralt fly through the air and into the thick trunk of the tree Jaskier is currently hiding behind, bludgeoned by the flat of its whipping tail. Geralt collapses to the ground and doesn’t move.

Jaskier takes a breath and leaps out from behind the relative safety of the tree, positioning himself in between Geralt and the creature. It snaps at him and Jaskier quails, momentarily stunned by the sight of the rows of razor sharp teeth, but he recovers quickly and does the only thing he can think to do: he screams in its face. He uses the full force of his vocal talents, projecting enough to be heard over the sound of a rowdy audience of hundreds, had there been an audience there to witness it. His throat vibrates to the point of agony, but all he cares about in that moment is Geralt, behind him. 

The wyvern looks surprised, inasmuch as a reptile has the ability to look surprised. It takes to the sky, its wings buffeting the air and sending Jaskier’s hair flying into his eyes. For a moment, one exhilarating moment, Jaskier thinks he has frightened it away, but then it shrieks at him and descends like a hunting falcon, arrow-fast. Jaskier opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

Then he hears the most beautiful sound in the world, Geralt’s voice yelling, “Jaskier, down!” and Jaskier drops like a stone. _Aard_ whips over his head, a powerful burst of energy that brings the wyvern crashing down in a tumble of uncoordinated limbs, and Geralt leaps over Jaskier to launch an attack so fast that Jaskier can barely see his sword move, can only catch the flash of it as he spins. The wyvern doesn’t move after that.

Geralt stands over it, chest heaving, and Jaskier struggles to get to his feet. He slips on fallen leaves and suddenly Geralt is there hauling him up by his arms and slamming his back against the tree.

“What the fuck were you thinking, Jaskier?” Geralt snarls, getting into his space, so close that Jaskier feels the heat of him pressing in like a weight on his chest. “Do I really need to tell you how close you just came to dying?”

Jaskier pants, still catching his breath, and all he can see are Geralt’s eyes sparking golden with rage, pinning him to the tree as surely as Geralt’s body is doing. There are things shifting in his eyes, dark things that should frighten him but don’t, not truly. “You weren’t moving,” is all he can say.

Geralt narrows his eyes at him. “Then you should have run away, as far and fast as your legs could carry you. But your first instinct was to leap in front of me, and I can’t…” Geralt appears to be at a loss for words, shaking his head, radiating anger.

“You scared the shit out of me,” Jaskier says hoarsely, and it hurts his throat to speak, but he can’t focus on his strained vocal chords when Geralt is right there, still breathing, unharmed. He gets one hand up between their bodies and rests it against Geralt’s chest armor, digging his fingertips in between the plates to hold on tightly.

Geralt looks astonished, rearing back slightly to blink at him. “I scared _you_? Jaskier, in what world--”

And Jaskier closes the distance and kisses him, muffling whatever he’d been about to say. Geralt tastes like spices, like whatever potion he took before the battle, and his mouth is softer than Jaskier would have expected. Geralt doesn’t kiss him back, doesn’t move at all, but the fierce grip he has on Jaskier’s arms slowly relaxes and his palms slide up over Jaskier’s shoulders, hovering uncertainly at his head. Jaskier keeps kissing him and Geralt doesn’t move away, just stands there while Jaskier licks across his lips and gets a fist in his tangled hair like he’s always wanted to do. Geralt’s mouth is hot against his, and his hair catches on Jaskier’s lute-calloused fingers.

Eventually, longer than he’s comfortable admitting to himself, he realizes that Geralt still hasn’t responded. He stops moving, then slowly releases Geralt’s mouth. Geralt’s eyes are tightly closed and he purses his lips, and Jaskier isn’t sure if it’s because he’s startled or repulsed. Jaskier disentangles his hand from Geralt’s hair and it clings to him.

“I, uh,” Jaskier whispers. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Geralt’s eyes fly open and he looks tortured, like he has no idea how to respond to that. He opens his mouth to speak but closes it again. He silently steps back, and Jaskier immediately sags against the tree like his strings have been cut. Geralt turns away and looks at the dead wyvern, and Jaskier’s eyes are drawn to it. There are so many teeth, and the spikes all along the length of its back and tail look like wicked knives. He shudders.

They return to camp in silence. Jaskier watches Geralt out of the corner of his eye. Geralt looks so stoic that his pale face could be made of marble, but now Jaskier knows how soft his mouth feels, how supple.

“Are you still angry at me?” he asks later as he watches Geralt feed the fire with broken twigs after their supper.

Geralt snaps a branch with abrupt force and shoves it into the fire.

“I suppose I shouldn’t tell you that I’d do it again, then.” Jaskier clears his throat and wishes he had some lemon tea. His throat still burns from screaming and his voice is a wreck. “Even if you think I shouldn’t have.”

“You had no right to risk yourself like that,” Geralt finally growls, stabbing at the fire until it sends up a shower of sparks.

“I have every right to defend a friend’s life,” Jaskier counters angrily. “I have the right to risk my life for you.”

Geralt turns his face away. “I’m not--” He breaks off abruptly.

“What, a friend? Worthy? Necessary?” Jaskier swallows hard. “Well, you are to me.”

The sound of the flames snapping seems to echo between them as they stare at each other from opposite sides of the fire. Geralt eventually breaks the gaze and walks down to the nearby stream. 

Jaskier massages his throat and feels hollow. He gets up and wanders away to where Roach stands tethered, and she whickers at him in a way that feels sympathetic, bumping him in the arm with her nose. “I’m not sorry,” he mutters to her as he combs through her mane with his fingers. “No matter how angry he is. Even if he leaves me at the next town. I’m not sorry.”

Later, as he’s finishing a braid in her mane, which he’s placed there because he knows it drives Geralt crazy, he pauses and flattens a hand on her neck. “I shouldn’t have kissed him, though. I wish I hadn’t done that. It would have been better not to know what it could be like, with him. I regret that.”

Roach snorts.

“Well, what do you think, girl? One more braid?” Jaskier asks with false cheer, determined to rally himself. He’s always been good at putting on a brave face, no matter the audience.


	5. The Stable

5\. The Stable

“Hide me!” Jaskier hisses as loudly as he dares, as he comes barreling around the corner and into the stable. Geralt steps out of Roach’s stall and gives him a startled look.

“Why should I hide you?” Geralt asks, and he sounds like he wants a full explanation, when Jaskier has barely time to breathe.

“There was a slight misunderstanding over a card game,” he says quickly, rushing to Geralt’s side and ducking around behind him. “Five men are after me, and they look pretty determined to get their point across, if you know what I mean.”

Geralt sighs. “Jaskier.”

“Look, I’m not asking you to fight them, I’m just asking you to _hide me_ until they’re gone.” He looks around frantically but the stable is open and airy, and there aren’t too many places to take cover.

“How am I supposed to do that?” Geralt crosses his arms impassively.

“Be creative!”

“Okay, stand behind me.”

Jaskier throws his hands up. “Geralt, you’re big but you’re not _that_ big.”

“Don’t say I never do anything for you,” Geralt mutters, grabbing his cloak from where it’s slung over the side of the stall and swinging it around Jaskier’s shoulders. He flips the hood up over Jaskier’s head and shoves him sideways into a huge pile of clean hay in the empty stall next to Roach’s.

Jaskier lands more softly than he’d expected, but then he hears the sound of boots on cobblestones and he panics. There is no way that he won’t be recognized like this, sprawled out on his back, even with the lantern light casting shadows. But Geralt is still moving, kneeling down to straddle Jaskier’s thighs, arranging the cloak over as much of Jaskier as he can. He pauses to fix Jaskier with a warning look, then settles down and slots their legs together.

Jaskier has time to say, “What--” before Geralt kisses him.

He honestly hadn’t seen it coming. It wouldn’t have made Jaskier’s list of top ten possible ways to hide someone, and he can’t quite figure out how it’s supposed to work, but all of his blood is rushing south from his brain anyway and he stops thinking. His eyes fall closed as he unconsciously angles into a better fit for their mouths, and Geralt growls low in his throat.

Dimly, Jaskier hears voices at the stable door and he reflexively grabs Geralt’s waist, digging his fingers in. Geralt had stripped down to his linen shirt already and Jaskier can feel the muscles ripple as Geralt breathes.

“Moan,” he tells Jaskier, and sweeps his tongue past Jaskier’s lips.

“What?” Jaskier asks breathlessly, his mouth still tangled up with Geralt’s.

Geralt pulls back. “ _Moan_ ,” he repeats, then licks a stripe up Jaskier’s neck and bites him below his ear. Whether by design or accident his hips shift against Jaskier’s and it’s clear that he’s growing hard.

Jaskier moans, deep-throated and shocked.

He feels Geralt gasp into his skin, feels one hand grip his hip and hold him down for another thrust. “Again,” he demands, leaning in to kiss him, and Jaskier helplessly obeys. Geralt kisses like he’s the one in danger instead of Jaskier, like it’s the last thing he’ll do in this life before he dies.

“I heard something. Check the stalls,” one man says, and Jaskier recognizes his voice as the eldest brother of the five, and the biggest. He’s got nearly as much brawn as Geralt, and Jaskier fears a confrontation. He turns his face away from the lantern light and hides in the hood of the cloak, baring his throat for Geralt’s teeth. Things take a turn for the surreal as he listens to the heavy thud of boots come closer and Geralt’s cock grows harder against his belly. The sweet smell of fresh hay rises from beneath them and Jaskier just breathes, afraid to do anything else.

“Get your own,” Geralt growls hotly over his shoulder when the boots stop abruptly in front of their stall, and through the pounding heartbeat in his ears Jaskier hears a chuckle.

“Apologies,” the man says, clearly amused. “I didn’t realize this stable was taken.”

“Fuck off,” Geralt replies, biting along Jaskier’s jaw, obscuring his face. Jaskier claws into Geralt’s ribs and moans.

“He’s not here,” came the distant explanation over by the stable door. “Let’s check the tavern around the corner.”

Geralt kisses him again and Jaskier clings on desperately, barely aware that the men have moved off down the street. He’s trapped in the confines of the cloak and can’t get any leverage to thrust upwards, pinned down as he is by Geralt’s heavy, welcome weight. “Geralt,” he whispers, struggling to get himself free, shoving his elbows against the tight wrap of the cloak.

With a gasp Geralt levers himself up and off of Jaskier like he’s on fire. He kneels over Jaskier’s prone body, his chest heaving like a bellows, his hands braced on his own thighs. He cocks his head to the side, listening.

“They’re gone,” Geralt says, and stands up, and Jaskier swallows down the words he wants to say, like _come back_ and _I want you_ and _kiss me again._

From his vantage point on the ground he can see that Geralt is hard, but it seems that he’s going to ignore it, and him. Geralt grasps Jaskier’s hand and yanks him to his feet, but steps away so quickly that Jaskier sways in his wake.

“Um,” Jaskier begins tentatively, and Geralt cuts him off.

“Next time you need to get out of trouble of your own making, figure it out yourself,” Geralt snarls over his shoulder.

“Fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier says faintly.

Geralt runs a hand over his hair and Jaskier can see that it’s shaking.

Jaskier tugs the cloak around himself, feeling a sudden chill. “They accused me of cheating, they were trying to shake me down.”

Geralt snorts. It’s not a kind sound.

“I wasn’t cheating!” Jaskier insists, feeling stung. “I didn’t have to, they were just really bad at cards.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything, just joins Roach in her stall and leaves Jaskier standing alone in the middle of the stable. Jaskier’s still hard in his breeches and suspects that Geralt is too. He wants to say he’s sorry, or thank you, but nothing feels right.

They have a shared room at the inn, having had just enough money between them for the one room, and Jaskier decides that anywhere would be better than here with Geralt’s back turned to him dismissively. He meanly steals Geralt’s cloak and marches back to the inn with the fabric pulled around him as a disguise in case the five brothers have circled back around.

He sneaks in the servants’ entrance and makes his way to their room undetected. When he’s got the door between him and the rest of the world he leans against it and palms his cock, squeezing gently and trying to process everything that had happened. It had been so fast, so brief, but it feels monumental. Just a few tangled moments of passion and then an abrupt end.

Jaskier doesn’t know _why_ Geralt stopped, only that he didn’t want to continue. Perhaps Geralt’s intense desire had been only circumstantial. Maybe it was just two bodies forced together and reacting to each other. That just doesn’t feel right, though. Jaskier doesn’t think it’s possible to fake that level of intimacy, no matter how brief.

Maybe he was scared.

It’s hard to imagine Geralt being scared of anything, but given how closed off he is even to Jaskier, who knows him arguably better than most people, he could be unwilling to share himself like that. There’s not much more Jaskier can do to convince him to open up, that he hasn’t already tried as his friend.

Jaskier tucks his face into Geralt’s stolen cloak and breathes. It smells like him, like leather and steel and sweat and the lavender soap he steals from Jaskier every time he bathes. Jaskier closes his eyes and tries to hold this moment close, remembering the feel of Geralt’s body weighing him down, the taste of his mouth, the sound of his gasp. It’s not enough.

He’s still hard, but he releases himself. It feels wrong to continue without Geralt. It feels bad enough just reliving the moments, knowing Geralt doesn’t truly want him.

When Geralt comes back an hour later Jaskier can smell the ale on him. He’s not drunk but his movements are looser. Jaskier is already in bed, having stripped to his smalls, and he tries not to watch Geralt undress slowly, baring his body piece by piece. Jaskier finally turns to the wall and waits for Geralt to climb in. The candles go out and the bed dips, and Jaskier feels Geralt settle behind him. He expects to sleep back to back but after a moment he feels Geralt’s breath on his shoulder, then his hand is tentatively wrapping around Jaskier’s arm.

For a brief second he thinks Geralt is trying to get him to turn, to renew what they had started, but then he realizes that it’s an apology of sorts. Jaskier touches Geralt’s hand with his own, an acknowledgment. Then they both pull away, and Jaskier spends a long time lying awake thinking about Geralt’s heat radiating all down his back like the press of a hearth fire into a cold room.


	6. The Dance

+1. The Dance

“Come on, Geralt, just one dance.”

“I don’t dance.”

“I’ve seen you dance with monsters, and you have lovely footwork.”

“No.”

Jaskier hides a smile and tilts his head back to look at the lanterns strung overhead from one building to the next, little boxes of yellow vellum glowing like tiny suns in the cool night air. “It is beautiful, though, isn’t it? I’m glad we stayed to see it.”

“Hmm.”

“I know you’ll say you’re unaffected, but deep inside somewhere you can see how magical this is, and you’re enjoying yourself.”

Geralt’s mouth quirks into something that might want to be a smile. “I’d enjoy myself more with a pint of ale in my hand.”

“Aha!” Jaskier exclaims with a bow and a flourish. “Say no more, my friend, I shall return with ale momentarily.”

He darts through the happy crowd in search of the tent with kegs of ale, soaking up the atmosphere of the autumn festival. Everyone is dressed in their finery, pretty girls wear yarrow and chrysanthemums in their hair, and paper ribbons the colors of fall leaves stream from everywhere they can be tied down. Music fills the square, an energetic rhythm with flute and fiddle, and for a moment Jaskier longs for his lute, but then decides that he’d rather enjoy himself than spend the evening performing.

The girl pouring the ale has her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and her hair in a braided crown on her head, and she's absolutely lovely. She winks and grins at him as Jaskier passes her some coins and she hands him two mugs, and for only a moment he considers her. It’s been a long time since he’s been interested in more than flirtation, and that’s not going to change tonight. He returns her smile but shrugs, lifting his mugs to show her he's already got a companion and she makes a wistful face. Her eyes are still sparkling though, and Jaskier leaves the tent feeling even more ebullient than before. 

He finds Geralt near where he left him, leaning against the wall of a baker's shop watching the crowd impassively. He accepts the ale with good grace, sipping it rather than tossing back half of it at once like he usually does. 

Jaskier tries not to watch Geralt lick the ale from his lips, and instead focuses on the crowd. "Everyone seems so joyful, don't you think? I wonder if it's always like this here." 

Geralt watches the townspeople dancing a jig around the bonfire in the center of the square. "It's not." 

Jaskier looks at him in surprise. "You never told me you've been here before." 

"It was a long time ago. I didn't get the warmest welcome." 

"Oh." Jaskier frowns, his spirits dampened. "Well, they seemed to welcome us well enough this time, maybe their attitudes have changed." 

"In my experience, people don't change that much." Geralt takes another drink and looks sideways at Jaskier. "But it's possible they've heard some songs that helped them accept what they couldn't before." 

Jaskier's jaw drops. "Why, Geralt, I do believe that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me." 

Geralt flinches just a little bit. "I should tell you things like that more often, then." 

Jaskier, who makes his living on the beauty of words, is suddenly at a loss for them. He feels his cheeks flush, and there is a pressure on his heart. Geralt catches his gaze and holds it until Jaskier feels like he might burst from the tension. He can’t really tell what Geralt is thinking, but he wants to. He just doesn’t know how to ask.

Geralt finally looks away and Jaskier shakes himself out of his daze. He needs to move, to throw this tightly wound feeling into something, and all he can hear above the pounding of his heart is music. "Come on, let's dance. Or I'll dance and you can stand there brooding and making everyone swoon." 

"Jaskier, I don't make people swoon on my best day." Geralt makes a face and shifts awkwardly.

“For such an intelligent person you can be remarkably dense, Geralt.” Jaskier tugs on his arm and leads him toward the bonfire. Geralt drags his feet but follows him, all the same. 

The townspeople are dancing to a lively tune and Jaskier watches for a minute until he figures out the basic steps, then with a grin he shoves his mug into Geralt’s hands and spins himself into the dance. A young woman in a red skirt with flowers in her hair catches his hands, laughing, and they seamlessly weave their way through the others. 

He dances through rhythmic ballads and enthusiastic jigs, until his feet are sore and his breath comes fast, and through it all he feels Geralt’s eyes following him. The tension rises higher in him, buzzing in his blood, and finally it reaches such a fever pitch that he has to acknowledge what it means. On the next pass around the bonfire he ducks out of the dance and reels to a halt in front of Geralt, panting and trembling.

Geralt isn’t impassive anymore. His golden eyes are bright with more than just the reflected bonfire, and Jaskier feels himself laid completely bare in front of him. Slowly, deliberately, Geralt sets their mugs down on a nearby table then stands there, waiting. 

Jaskier steps closer, close enough that they might be dancing. His heart is still thumping its own heavy rhythm like the shoes on cobblestones all around them, and his breath comes unevenly. He lifts his hand and touches the cleft of Geralt’s chin with his thumb, catching on the fine stubble there. Geralt stands perfectly still and watches him while he carefully brushes upward to press his lower lip, tracing along the edge of it. He tugs slightly and Geralt’s lips part, his shuddering breath streaming hot over Jaskier’s fingers.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispers, coaxing with his thumb. “Let me in.”

Geralt closes his eyes and Jaskier leans in, resting his mouth against Geralt’s, soaking in the sensation like it might be his very last. After a moment, in which Jaskier starts to question if he’s made a mistake again, Geralt shifts closer and fits their mouths together.

It’s unmistakable now, the way that Geralt licks at Jaskier’s lips, the way his shaking hands come up to cradle Jaskier’s cheeks. Jaskier made the first step but it’s Geralt who takes their kiss from chaste and gentle to something _more_ , and Jaskier feels that howling tension rise in him. He throws an arm around Geralt’s neck, hanging on for balance while Geralt takes him apart with his mouth. He tastes like ale and a hint of the honeycakes they shared earlier, and something indefinable and familiar. Jaskier recognizes it from their brief kisses, those stolen moments that didn’t seem real but have imprinted themselves permanently in Jaskier’s heart.

Jaskier feels a sudden frisson of fear and gently breaks the kiss. He presses his forehead to Geralt’s temple and tries to catch his breath. “Don’t pull away from me again. Stay,” he entreats, sliding his fingers into the tangle of Geralt’s hair and holding on.

Geralt sighs and flattens his palm against the small of Jaskier’s back, anchoring him. “I’ll stay,” he says, and Jaskier hears the promise in it.

He grins against Geralt’s cheek and chases his mouth, and Geralt makes a soft sound into their kiss, tightening his hold on Jaskier and drawing his body even closer. Jaskier groans when he remembers where they are, in the middle of a town square with people dancing and children chasing each other, laughing, through the crowd.

“We have to get out of here,” he says against Geralt’s mouth, and Geralt bites at his lower lip. “Oh gods, seriously, Geralt. Let’s go. Now.”

He grabs Geralt by the hand and drags him from the square toward the inn where they’re staying. It’s a relief when the crowd thins and they make it to a quieter side street. Paper lanterns swing overhead and Jaskier shivers in the cool breeze, and then suddenly Geralt tugs him sideways into a shadowed alley and pushes him against the wall.

“I can’t wait,” Geralt growls, and keeps him there while he kisses the breath from him. Jaskier laughs, giddy with surprise and desire when Geralt bites down his jaw and licks along the line of his throat.

Jaskier clings tightly to him, rocking into the pressure of Geralt’s body. He moans when Geralt drags his hand down Jaskier’s ribs and sets a thumb into his hip bone, holding him in place. He closes his eyes and takes a deep and necessary breath. “Geralt, seriously, we can’t do this here.”

“No one is watching,” he replies against Jaskier’s shoulder, and his thumb sweeps inward from Jaskier’s hip. Jaskier shudders.

“There are children, Geralt.”

“I don’t see any children.”

“You can’t see anything with your face in my neck. Oh sweet gods above. Do that again.”

Geralt bites his earlobe and for a moment Jaskier forgets about the children. He digs his fingers into Geralt’s shoulders and hangs on as Geralt nibbles a delicate line along the shell of his ear.

The sound of passing voices startles Jaskier and his eyes fly open. “Wait, wait. Please.”

Geralt sighs and pulls back.

Jaskier takes his face in his hands. Geralt looks disheveled and bright-eyed, hopeful. Jaskier has never seen him look like that, not once in all the years he’s known him. “Geralt, there are things we need to do. So many things. But we _can’t do them here_.”

For a long moment Geralt just looks into his eyes, perhaps gauging all the things that Jaskier is thinking, that must be reflected there. Geralt’s expression darkens into something more predatory.

“Let’s go,” Geralt demands, his voice low and urgent, and yanks him out of the alley. Jaskier’s head swims with the sudden movement and he stumbles, but Geralt’s hand steadies him. His hair shines in the lantern light like a beacon, and Jaskier follows quickly behind him until they reach the inn.

The public room is a merry place, loud with laughter, which rings in Jaskier’s ears until they get inside their room with the door shut firmly behind them. Geralt lights a candle and Jaskier waits impatiently for the wick to flare, thinking of all the seconds wasted, and then they look at each other in the dim light.

Nothing has changed, and yet everything has. Jaskier knows Geralt’s body the way one might know the shape of the earth by studying a map. Now he’s allowed to learn its contours by touch, the planes of him, the scars that run like rivers down his skin. He tugs on his shirt until Geralt strips it over his head, and Jaskier doesn’t know where to begin.

There is a scar that slips down below Geralt’s collarbone, long and spidery, old. Jaskier dips his tongue against it, tracing the line toward Geralt’s heart. His skin tastes like salt, rich and earthy. His breathing turns shaky as he strokes Jaskier’s hair, trying to guide him upwards. Jaskier ignores him and licks his nipple, and Geralt groans.

“You said there were things,” Geralt murmurs. “Things that you want to do.”

“This is one of them.” He kisses Geralt’s navel as he sinks down to his knees. He presses his lips to the hard line of Geralt’s cock through his breeches and Geralt inhales sharply. Jaskier can feel his cock throb even through the fabric. “Give me this, right here.”

“Fuck,” Geralt whispers, fumbling at the buttons of his breeches, pulling himself out with a shaking hand.

Jaskier doesn’t wait for Geralt to steady himself, he just takes Geralt in his hand and sinks his mouth down around him. He’s heavy and thick on Jaskier’s tongue, a stretch for his jaw that makes him moan. He finds a rhythm with his own breathing, rise and fall, and Geralt threads his fingers through Jaskier’s hair.

He’s not surprised that Geralt is as taciturn in the bedroom as he is everywhere else, but he says, “ _Jaskier_ ,” like it’s the only word he knows, and Jaskier feels a thrill at hearing his own name said with such reverence. Jaskier keeps moving on him, wet suction and slick texture, long after his jaw starts to ache. He ignores it in favor of coaxing the taste of him out onto his tongue, bitter and strong, fueling his own fire. When Geralt pulls him off he gasps for air and wipes his mouth, looking up at Geralt and seeing naked, burning intensity in his eyes.

Geralt pulls him up and kisses him hard, sweeping his tongue through Jaskier’s mouth with keen desperation, and Jaskier sways in his arms. There are too many layers between them so he strips his shirt over his head with Geralt’s help. The cool air in the room washes over him and pebbles his nipples, and Geralt’s hands are warm as they sweep over his chest and stomach, too quickly, leaving Jaskier wanting more. He almost starts to beg, but Geralt suddenly spins him around and pushes him against the door, and Jaskier brings his hands up to brace himself.

“Like this,” Geralt murmurs in his ear, ghosting his breath over Jaskier’s neck and shoulder, gently biting down at the juncture, and Jaskier cries out in shock and pleasure.

Geralt trails his fingertips down Jaskier’s spine, teasing at the line of his breeches and palming his ass, kissing the nape of his neck, and Jaskier shivers. Geralt moves his hand away and replaces it with the hot, hard ridge of his cock in the small of Jaskier’s back.

Jaskier can’t do anything but try to breathe through the wave of lust that hits him so hard he sees stars. He pushes back, exhilarated when he feels Geralt growl against his neck. Then Geralt slides a hand around his side and down across his belly, slipping inside his breeches and brushing the tip of his cock, and Jaskier bucks against his hand, wanting more. He starts to move his hands from where they’re braced against the door, but Geralt grabs one wrist and says, “Keep them here.”

He unbuttons Jaskier’s breeches one-handed and pulls him out, and Jaskier moans at his gentle grip, not tight enough to counter the need he feels. He moves into his fist but it’s Geralt who decides the rhythm and Jaskier is helpless in his hands.

“Gods above, Geralt. What are you doing to me?” he whispers without meaning to, dropping his head between his outstretched arms.

Geralt kisses between his shoulder blades and uses his tongue to follow the knobs of his spine back up to the top. “That depends on whether or not it’s working.”

The low timbre of his voice makes Jaskier shiver. “If you stop I might die.”

“I won’t let you die,” Geralt replies, dark amusement in his voice as he tightens his fist. “We’re not finished yet.”

Jaskier moans and jerks in his grip. Geralt presses closer and his cock is like a brand against Jaskier’s skin. He closes his eyes and just lets himself feel, his whole world contracting to the point where the knowledge of Geralt surrounding him is all he recognizes. They’re so close that he can feel Geralt’s heartbeat against his skin.

“Please, please,” Jaskier says, and Geralt slips his thumb over the head of his cock. “I need more, I need you.”

Geralt gently pulls away and turns him around again, and Jaskier fights to focus his eyes on Geralt’s face. What he sees there makes him throw himself into a kiss that Geralt returns fiercely, until his lips feel perfectly bruised and his heart hurts from pounding.

“Take this off.” Geralt tugs on the open edges of Jaskier’s breeches, and Jaskier stumbles through removing his boots and stepping out of his confining breeches. He looks up to see that Geralt has done the same, and almost drops to his knees again to worship him.

“Down,” Jaskier orders, shoving until Geralt stretches out on the bed and Jaskier can climb up to straddle him. He knows that he couldn’t hold Geralt down even if he tried with all his might, but Geralt lets him press his wrists to the bed anyway. Jaskier lowers his hips slowly until both their cocks are trapped together, and Geralt closes his eyes and arches his head back. Jaskier latches onto the curve of his neck, sucking a bruise into his skin.

“How do you want me? Like this?” he asks into Geralt’s throat as he rocks his hips down. “Or inside me? Do you want me to ride you? Do you want to hold me down?”

Geralt makes a sound that vibrates into Jaskier’s mouth on his skin. “I want all of it.”

“I’d give it to you all at once if I could, but I’m afraid we’ll just have to keep going until we get it all done. I have a very long list. Would you like to hear it?”

“I’d like to hear the sounds you make when I’m fucking you,” Geralt replies, and somehow it doesn’t sound crude, it sounds reverent.

Jaskier pulls back and notices Geralt’s fists clenching beside him on the bed, like he’s waiting for permission to move them, and Jaskier grins. “First, touch me.”

Geralt moves so fast he’s a blur of motion as he flips them on the bed and presses Jaskier into the mattress. He traces down Jaskier’s ribs and follows the touch with his mouth, tasting him, dropping kisses downward until he can suck at the sensitive skin of Jaskier’s hip. He bites little stinging marks inward toward his cock while Jaskier writhes beneath him.

“You smell so fucking good,” Geralt whispers against the base of his cock, and licks upward until he can get his mouth over the head and swirl his tongue there with heavy pressure that makes Jaskier pant and clutch at the bedsheet. Having had a taste, he lifts his head and looks Jaskier in the eye. He slips two fingers down between his cheeks and rubs against his hole. “Do you want me?”

“Do you really have to ask?” Jaskier gasps, spreading his legs.

“I’d like to hear you say it.”

“I need you,” Jaskier assures him, the words forced out through his aching throat, desperate. “I’ve never needed anyone like this before. _Please_.”

The light in Geralt’s eyes flares like tinder catching a spark. He climbs off the bed and digs in his bags until he finds a small bottle and brings it back. Jaskier rolls onto his stomach and gets the pillow under his hips, tilting upwards toward Geralt like an offering. Geralt lets out a ragged sigh and runs his palm over Jaskier’s ass and thigh, and Jaskier can feel the weight of his gaze.

“Look later, Geralt,” he implores, turning his head to glance back at him.

“Hush. I’m planning.”

Jaskier shivers and pillows his chin on his hands, waiting. When he feels Geralt’s lips and tongue on his upturned cheek he can’t help the little moan that escapes. Geralt’s teeth scrape bluntly over his skin, and he lifts his ass higher, begging without words, but Geralt is only having a taste. He slides slick fingers across Jaskier’s hole and dips one inside, and Jaskier feels his face heat up with embarrassment at how badly he needs this, how much that one simple touch makes him want to give Geralt every single part of himself to break down and make new again.

By the time Geralt deems him prepared Jaskier is sheened with sweat and shivering in the cool air, each breath coming out on a gasp. Geralt has been silent, and Jaskier has been unable to speak, so when Geralt asks, “Now?” all Jaskier can moan is, “I’ve been ready since the day I met you.”

Geralt drags his fingers down Jaskier’s spine and presses his cock slowly inside, and by the time he’s seated as deep as he can go Jaskier has already forgotten what it was like not to have Geralt be a part of him. Geralt doesn’t ask if he needs to wait, just starts shifting in and out by the tiniest degrees, a little bit more every time, so that Jaskier has more time than he needs to get used to Geralt despite his size. He isn’t sure when he started moaning Geralt’s name over and over, but by the soothing way Geralt strokes his palm over Jaskier’s hip he must have been doing it for a while.

“Breathe,” Geralt rasps, and Jaskier takes a deep breath, then Geralt thrusts in hard and Jaskier’s vision sparkles like he’s been staring at the sun too long. He rocks back into Geralt’s hands, meeting him halfway, trying to brace himself on outstretched arms on the mattress. He keeps sliding forward and Geralt finally lets go of his hips to reach out and intertwine their fingers together, locked as one. His thrusts are shallower but the shift in angle is brilliant, sublime, and Geralt’s mouth on his shoulder is shaping soundless words that Jaskier can only guess at.

Jaskier isn’t sure how long it lasts. He drops his head forward and arches his back, and the whole world is Geralt’s cock stretching him open and Geralt’s arms surrounding him and Geralt’s fingers gripping his. He doesn’t need anything else.

“This is more than I ever…” Geralt says, so low that it’s barely more than a vibration in Jaskier’s ear, and Jaskier nods.

Geralt gets a hand free and pushes it beneath him to wrap around Jaskier’s cock, and Jaskier keens, just a wail of sound as everything goes brighter, white hot, and he starts to fall over the edge before he’s ready for it. Through the maelstrom he feels Geralt throb deep within him and hears him cry out hoarsely as he comes. Even as he revels in the end he’s desperate for the next time, and the next, knowing that there will never be a time when he’s had his fill.

Unlocking their hands is painful but necessary as Geralt lifts himself up away from Jaskier to avoid crushing him. Jaskier feels empty when he pulls out and has to stop himself from asking Geralt to stay. There will be other times, he tells himself, and he has to content himself with the fact that Geralt seems to need to keep a point of contact with him as they slowly collapse together.

There’s come underneath him and inside him and they both need a wash, but for a while they just lay together, hands touching but not linked, Jaskier’s foot thrown over Geralt’s calf. The sweat is cooling on Jaskier’s body though, and when his shivering has become noticeable Geralt gives him a tired, fond smile and goes to find something to clean them up.

When Jaskier is as clean as he’s going to get, he gets up and stretches and wanders over to the window. He takes stock of all the aches and lingering pleasure in his body, and is happier than he’s felt in a long, long time. He listens to the sound of voices and laughter downstairs and strains of music from the square. He can see the faint glow from the bonfire in the distance, and the real world seems far away from them in their own little corner of contentment. On the bed, Geralt is languid and golden by the light of the single candle, all the planes and curves of him both glowing and shadowed.

“You’re beautiful, Geralt. I’ve always wanted to tell you, from the first moment I saw you.” Jaskier returns and kneels beside him on the mattress. He rests his hand on Geralt’s cheek, running his thumb across Geralt’s eyebrow. “I’ve written poetry for you in my mind that I’ll never share with anyone. There are stanzas describing the color of your eyes, the line of your jaw, the grip of your fingers around the hilt of a sword.”

Geralt looks uncomfortable and won’t hold his gaze. Jaskier leans down and kisses him until the tension melts away from his mouth and he reaches up to hold Jaskier in place. He indulges Geralt for a moment, trading short, gentle kisses, then pulls away and sits up.

“I’ll stop talking,” Jaskier promises, “but don’t think for a second that I’m not still seeing the poetry in you.”

“You’re deluded,” Geralt says, but he smiles. He traces the shell of Jaskier’s ear and flicks the lobe, and Jaskier grins.

He rests his hand over Geralt’s medallion where it lays on his chest. Jaskier can feel the faintest thud of Geralt’s heartbeat through the warm silver into his palm. Geralt’s expression turns solemn.

“I haven’t said. I hope you know that I.” Geralt clears his throat and frowns. “You need to know. Only I don’t know how to say it.”

Jaskier touches his fingers, curling around them. Geralt’s return grip is tight enough to hurt but he holds on anyway. “I know,” he whispers. “Me too. I always have.”

“You’re the one with all the words,” Geralt says, looking at their linked hands. “I expected something flowery.”

“Do you want flowery?” He lifts their hands and kisses Geralt’s calloused fingers.

Geralt shakes his head. “I just want you.”

Jaskier shrugs, his heart on fire. “It took us a long time, but I think we understand each other now. That’s enough for me.” He thinks of the fleeting, tangled moments they had shared before tonight, the glimpses of what could be, once they were both ready. He touches Geralt’s mouth softly, tracing the curve of his almost-smile, then leans down to kiss him. Geralt kisses him back, then whispers, “ _Jaskier_.”

In his name he hears all the words they haven’t said. It’s more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments bring joy to my life! <3


End file.
